A Secret Admirer
by ScumFace
Summary: One-shot. SLASH. A different perspective to the story we all know.


**Othello re-creative piece**

I was in my first week in the military front line when I first met him. I forget what day, I forget what we were doing, but I remember how I felt. I first noticed his rich colour, standing out like a black rose on a coat of fresh snow, out of season but breathtakingly beautiful, surrounded by pale skinned men. His muscles rippled under his skin as he moved fluidly through the crowd. I heard murmurs follow him as I watched from a distance, my eyes peeled, unable to look away from his beauty, his exoticism, his pure masculinity. Even on that day I was nothing whilst he was everything. I was always inferior to him.

Later that same night I heard his name. I remember a man of about the same amount of years as him, far more than my years, calling out to him. "Othello," he'd called out, "Othello, do wait up. You're always in such a hurry."

Othello. It fit him perfectly. A striking name for a striking man.

I watched his lips spread and a pleasant smile grow on his mouth as he answered in his deep rumbling voice, "Well, Iago, good sir, I certainly cannot say the same for you."

I watched in envy as they jested so easily with one another, unaware of my presence. What is a lowly foot soldier to those of such high statuses who fight beside one another day after day and know and rely on each other? How could I be of the same level when I had little to no experience?

Alas, God did lay misfortune on me as he did decree that I love men. This taboo feeling within me that I had tried to banish for many years.

But now, now I had met the most beautiful and mysterious of men, the glorious Othello, how could anyone expect me to suppress these feelings? I was but a man, and I was created to lust and to fight. I knew not to act on them, of course, never, but for many days I did so watch him and lust for him and for many nights I did twist in my bed and try to ignore my betraying body that would not let me rest without thought of Othello.

As time continued I was honoured to fight beside him and watch him in battle, trying my greatest to pay no heed to his body moving in that exquisite way or his arm lightly brushing against me as we hurried away from danger.

And each time I saw him I was spurred by the lack of a woman hanging from his arm. If he had no interest in women then maybe I had a chance. Maybe one day he would see me, really _see_ me, not as a foot soldier who served him, not as a comrade, but as a lover.

Until that day in Venice. I curse that day and every day that after it. I curse him for the pain he caused within me as he met the Venetian whore, Desdemona, who seduced him and betrayed her father. I wondered at the time, how could someone as wise and great as Othello not see that if a lady has the discourtesy to betray her father, then why would she not betray him? If I were superior, if I were a greater man, I would have strolled towards him and warned him. The ladies of Venice were cheap; they were worthless. I abhor that woman, Desdemona. My dear Othello deserved far more. But, unfortunately, I was but a coward. I smiled happiness I did not feel: rather, my body was being torn inside. I could feel the gaping hole in my chest, and it took all my will to not scream from great pain. I remember the first time I saw them together, not long after the marriage and even then I disgusted myself as I indulged in watching his strong arms sweep her up, the coils of muscle shifting under his smooth dark skin, as he caressed her like many a time I'd dreamt he'd do to me. But God did not lay good fortune to their marriage. Soon enough, not a day later, we heard that we must go to Cyprus. And I silently rejoiced that Othello must part from his new wife who shamelessly flaunted her lust for him.

But the manipulative cow managed to weasel into Cyprus, begging and pleading he let her come. And he gave in.

And in those early days I could see the change. The man that owned my heart, the love of my pathetic existence, was changing due to a _woman. _How dare she tame the great Othello? And not only that, but she had audacity to be unfaithful to him. How I wish I could tear her to pieces. She flirted with other men in Othello's presence and he turned a blind eye. She was outspoken, but he did not disapprove. And he said not a word against her until Iago, honest and great Iago, confronted him and laid the truth to him, man to man. And then she saw Othello for who he really was. The man I loved. A man of war. A warrior. And she did not like what she saw.

But despite my love for him, and despite his reversion to his old self, there was a new taint to it. He was less rational, not able to think, and I worried with the rest of the men. What would he do? For we had not doubt he was to do something. He was no longer going to just observe his wife; he was going to act on this behaviour of hers. There were rumours of what he was going to do. He thought of demoting Cassio, who was said to have lain with Desdemona; he considered divorcing her, according to the other soldiers; some said he planned to kill Cassio, while the more morbid said he was going to kill Desdemona herself, although this rumour was instantly dismissed by most.

Until the night it happened. I wasn't there at the time, and I'll forever mourn it, but I was told it all happened so fast. All I cared about was that my love, my passion, the great Othello, my master in heart and war, was _dead_.

What I felt then made the pain of Othello's marriage look feeble. I may not have liked his changes, I couldn't say I wanted Desdemona around, but to _die_ was like to kill me. I felt my heart shrivel in my chest and groan like it were being squeezed and wrenched. I was bedridden for days and my fellow soldiers put it down to fever. But it was far more. The pain, it would not stop. I wept and shook, I slept and ate but I could not rid the ache. Othello was dead. I would never lay eyes on the man again. I was to move on. Continue to fight, find myself a wife to live my life with, and never admit to the pain and warmth I felt towards him.

So, to this day, many years after, I still feel a glower whenever I think of him. A small smile creeps to my face and my heart throbs within me. But I stay silent.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Othello, Desdemona or Iago but I do own my MC

**A/N:** Please don't steal, this is my coursework. Although I'd love to hear what you think.


End file.
